


Softly, gently

by thepeskyunicorn



Series: THB fanwork week [5]
Category: His - Fandom
Genre: First Kiss, Lazy Mornings, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-25
Updated: 2015-09-25
Packaged: 2018-04-23 07:14:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4867904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thepeskyunicorn/pseuds/thepeskyunicorn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Posner has taken to seeking Scripps out in his room every weekend at Oxford.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Softly, gently

**Author's Note:**

> THB fanwork week - Day 5

Posner has taken to seeking Scripps out in his room every weekend at Oxford. It used to be just for old time’s sake, a preservation of a tradition they had back in Sheffield. But now, amidst the dizzying grandness of spires and majestic buildings, the comforting ritual of turning up at the other’s front door with a smile and a pile of books is something that they both took refuge in. 

They would usually lounge around, trying to complete their essays, occasionally letting out a frustrated sigh or read aloud a passage that they found absolutely confounding. Other times, they would engage in a debate about some topic that catches their attention. Sometimes, when they’re feeling indulgent, they would pick up a book - for Posner, poetry and for Scripps, a novel - and curl up together on the bed, closer than what would be deemed appropriate. Posner likes it best when he’s tucked under Scripps's arm, near his chest, close enough to feel Scripps’s heartbeat. It is a calming thing , listening to the steady beat, as solid and reassuring as the presence of Scripps in his life. 

Scripps, for what it’s worth, did not mind. He reckons that it is a good thing that Posner likes this position, because then at least he’ll be able to indulge in his favourite pastime of running his fingers through Posner’s hair. He would keep a hand on his book and comb absent-mindedly through the Posner’s hair with the other, occasionally grinning at the hum of satisfaction from the other boy when he kneaded the scalp. Posner’s warm, grounding presence reminds him of the comfort of home, not the one found in Sheffield, but the one found in warm camaraderie between youths, full of life and innocence.

The first time Scripps had tried this strange grooming gesture was merely on a whim; he had a desire to touch to soft hair on Posner’s head coupled with an overwhelming affection towards the other boy. With an impulse he could not explain, Scripps had reached out and passed a hand over Posner’s hair, once, lightly, hesitantly. Posner, to his credit, did not flinch or ask for an explanation. Instead, he closed his eyes and gave a faint smile.

They never speak during these moments, or after them. It's a fragile arrangement based off need and comfort, of mutual reciprocation that to them, is as natural and vital as breathing.

Surprisingly, it is Scripps who breaks the tenuous quietness. 

It’s a bitterly cold December morning when they gave up trying to get any work done, preferring instead to curl up against each other in ridiculously large sweaters. Posner, with his legs tangled in Scripps’s, nudges his head against Scripps’s hand playfully, like a cat, asking for another one of his scalp massage. Scripps obliged, huffing a soft laugh. Posner stretches in perfect contentment at Scripps’s ministration, exposing the pale of his neck. Scripps, overwhelmed by a yet unknown emotion, leans down to press a kiss at the hollow of Posner’s throat. 

It was a quick peck, barely a pressing of his lips to the column of Posner’s neck but they both froze, arrested by the sudden surprise. Posner blinks and widens his eyes, turning to face Scripps. And Scripps, with all his unexpected shyness and write-it-downs, deign to look away, too afraid to watch what would be rising sympathies on his friend’s face. 

“Oh Scripps,” he imagines Posner would say, with undisguised pity. He wishes Posner would just get angry at him and leave. Somehow, pity would hurt so much more than anger.

A finger slotted under his chin and pushes his face up. Unable to withstand the tension any longer, Scripps raises his eyes.

There it is, the incredibly fond look Posner always gives, something so tender that Scripps hoped against all hope that he would not mistake him for something other than - dare he think it - love.

They stare at each other in a stretch silence, for a moment, then two, while the entirety of their friendship coalesce into the narrow space of Scripps’s bed and the silver of air between them. Scripps is painfully aware of how close they both are physically, with their legs tangled in the sheets and a wanting on his lips. For all his words and quick wit, it is bitterly ironic that he does not know how to express his desire.

He clears his throat and searches his brain for something worthy to express this desire, this need.

“But I, being poor, have only my dreams,” he whispers, soft and only meant for their ears. “I have spread my dreams under your feet.”

“Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.” Posner finishes quietly, trailing his finger down Scripps’s throat from where they have been tilting his chin, past the bob of his Adam’s apple, to rest on his chest. Scripps’s skin tingles and he shivers minutely, yearning for more than a brief touch. 

And that was as far as Posner got before his heart, full of the impatience of youth and the undeniable love for the boy before him, twists his fingers into the soft cotton of Scripps’s shirt and pulls him into a kiss.

It was everything and nothing that Scripps could ever dream of. The soft gliding of Posner’s lips across his, curious and hungry, and the soft velveteen swipe of tongue against his bottom lip. His hands, wandering under Posner’s shirt to stroke down his sides, feeling his ribs to remind himself that this is real. He rubs his fingers across the softness of Posner’s belly, huffing a soft laugh as Posner squirms and smiles into the kiss. 

Posner winds a hand around Scripps’s neck, scratching lightly at the sensitive skin at the base of his neck, sending pleasant shivers down Scripps’s spine. He pushes harder into the kiss, deepening it, allowing his tongue to be entangled in Posner’s, relishing the soft whimpers and allowing himself to moan his satisfaction.

“I’ve known.” Posner says, when they finally pull apart, still gasping for breath, thrilling at the tingle in their lips. “I’ve known for quite some time about my feelings for you.” Posner ducks his head down and peers up through his lashes. “I didn’t - didn’t want to assume that you feel the same, so I, well, I didn’t dare to try anything.”

Posner had look so vulnerable then that Scripps couldn’t help but twist his fingers through Posner’s, marveling at the fit, and leaning back in to connect their lips, trying to tell him what his words could not. The ‘loving you is as easy as breathing’ and ‘how could I not have seen?’ pouring out in the nips and slide of their mouths.

It’s as close to perfect as the both of them could get, with their mingled breaths and elated smiles directed at each other. History has been made and for the first time, Scripps feel certain that it will continue to do so through their memories, their tentative exhalations of love and their lazy Sunday mornings where it all began.

**Author's Note:**

> Quote by 'He wishes for the cloths of heaven' by W.B. Yeats


End file.
